The marines had fallen in again and the little party began to descend to the town.
With Stewart, Drinkwater repaired to the Crown Inn.
Captain Edgecumbe of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Galatea was an officer of the old school. When a ragamuffin midshipman appeared before him in filthy ducks the Captain was rightly wrathful. When that same scruffy midshipman attempted to report the arrival of the captured privateer Algonquin the captain refused to be side-tracked by incidentals. He also disliked interruptions.
The diatribe to which he subjected Drinkwater was as lengthy as it was unnecessary. In the end the midshipman stood silent, discovering, after some minutes had elapsed, that he was not even listening. Outside the hot sun shone and he had an odd longing to be doing nothing but lounging in that sunshine and perhaps have his arm about the waist of one of those pretty girls he had seen earlier. The sweet scent of Cornwall wafted in through the open window distracting his senses from the path of duty. Only when the Captain ceased his tirade did the sudden silence break into his reverie and drag his conscious mind back to the inn room. He looked at the Captain.
Sitting in his shirt-sleeves Edgecumbe looked what he was, a dissipated and incompetent officer, living out of his ship and indulging his sexual appetites with local ladies. Drinkwater felt a sudden surge of contempt for him.
He touched his forehead. 'Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.' He turned and marched smartly from the room.
Downstairs he found Stewart in the taproom. He was chaffing with a red-cheeked girl. Drinkwater noticed with a flutter in his stomach the girl had bright eyes and apple breasts.
Stewart, slightly abashed, bought the midshipman a pot of beer.
'Be 'e yer Cap'n?' the girl asked Stewart, giggling incredulously and setting the tankard down in front of Drinkwater.
The quartermaster nodded flushing a little.
Drinkwater was confused by the unaccustomed proximity of the girl, but he felt Stewart's deference to his apparent importance as a spur to his manhood. She leaned over him boldly.
'Does y're honour need anything,' she enquired solicitously.
The heaving bosom no longer embarrassed him in his newfound confidence. He sucked greedily at the tankard, staring at the girl over its rim and enjoying her discomfiture as the beer warmed his belly. He was, after all, prize-master of the Algonquin, who had strutted through Falmouth under the admiring glances of scores of women…
He finished the beer. 'To tell the truth ma'am, I have not the means to purchase more than a pot or two of beer…'
The girl plumped herself on the bench next to Stewart. She knew the quartermaster had a guinea or half sovereign about him, for she had seen the glint of gold in his hand. Stewart's experience ensured he never ventured ashore without the price of a little dalliance or a good bottle about his person. The girl smiled at Drinkwater. It was a pity, she thought, he looked a nice young man, handsome in a pale sort of way. She felt Stewart's arm encircle her. Ah, well a girl had to live…
'Yer honour'll have matters of great importance to deal with,' she said pointedly. She began to nestle up to Stewart who was staring at him. Drinkwater was aware of the pressure of Stewart's arm on a large breast. The white flesh swelled up, threatening to eject itself from the ineffectively grubby confines of the girl's bodice.
Drinkwater smiled lightheartedly. Rising, he tossed a few coppers on to the table.
'Be on board by sunset, Mr Stewart.'
On his return to Algonquin Drinkwater found the schooner being washed down. Upon the deck lay a bundle. It was a dead man. The other wounded were up and about, Grattan had had his arm splinted by the surgeon of Galatea. In the absence of the midshipman Collingwood had been aboard the schooner and arranged for Cyclops's injured to attend Galatea for medical attention. He had also ordered the remainder into cleaning their prize.
Collingwood took an interest in the Algonquin for he was shortly to be posted to the West Indies where such vessels abounded. Besides he had liked the look of the young midshipman, who had done well by all accounts. A little discreet questioning among Algonquin's prize crew told how well. The lieutenant left a message that Drinkwater should report to him on his return aboard.
The quarterdeck of Galatea reminded Drinkwater of Cyclops and he experienced a pang of nostalgia for his own frigate. Collingwood took him to one side and questioned him.
'Did you see Captain Edgecumbe?'
'Yes, sir.' The lieutenant broke into a fit of coughing. 'What orders did he give you?' he asked at last.
'None, sir.'
'None?' queried the lieutenant, a mock frown creasing his forehead.
'Well, sir…' Drinkwater faltered. What did one say to a first lieutenant whose captain had filled you with contempt?
'He told me to change my uniform, sir, and to… and to…'
'To report to the Flag Officer, Plymouth, I don't doubt. Ain't that so, lad?'
Drinkwater looked at Collingwood and through his fatigue the light slowly dawned on him.
'Oh! Yes… yes, sir, that's correct.' He paused.
'Very well. I'd get under way tomorrow if I were you.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' The midshipman knuckled his forehead and turned away.
'Oh, and Mr Drinkwater!'
'Sir?'
'You cannot bury that man in the harbour. My carpenter is making a coffin. I have taken the liberty of arranging a burial service later this afternoon. You will attend the church of St Charles the Martyr at four o'clock. Do you give thanks to the Lord for your deliverance…' The tall lieutenant turned away in another paroxysm of coughing.
Drinkwater slept briefly and at five bells was called to find his ducks cleaned and pressed. Hagan had spruced up his marines and the little party that solemnly marched to the parish church with their dismal burden carried with them a kind of rough dignity. The organisation of a church burial for one of their number was a touch that Drinkwater did not really appreciate at the time.
Called upon to squander their life's blood in the service of an ungrateful country, the British seaman was inured to being treated worse than a beast. When gestures such as that made by Wilfred Collingwood touched their hearts they became an emotional breed. While Edgecumbe pursued the libertine path of the insensitive autocrat, Collingwood and others were learning the true trade of leadership. No-one was to play upon the sailor's heart-strings as well as Horatio Nelson, but he was not the only one to learn.
The church was marvellously cool after the heat of the afternoon. The little congregation shuffled awkwardly, sensing the incongruity of the occasion. Afterwards under the yew trees, the heat wrapped itself around the party again. Three men wept as the plain coffin was laid to rest, worn out with exertion and over-strung nerves.
The brief burial over, the seamen and marines prepared to march into town. The priest, a thin shrivelled man who wore his hair to the shoulder in the old fashioned manner, came over to the midshipman.
'I would be honoured, sir, if you would take a dish of tea with me at the vicarage yonder.'
'Thank you, sir,' Drinkwater bowed.
The two men entered the house which contained something of the cool of the church. It reminded Drinkwater abruptly and painfully of his own home. A table was set for three. It seemed that the priest had some knowledge of the prize crew's exploits for he addressed Drinkwater in enthusiastic tones.
'I am but the interregnum here, but I am sure that the incumbent would wish me to welcome the opportunity of entertaining a naval hero in his home…'